


The Proposition

by lavvyan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes helps Watson relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Berlinghoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berlinghoff/gifts).



The latest bout of influenza held London in a firm grip that late January, and seeing as I was a doctor I had not gotten more than two hours' sleep a night. Battling the fevers, the muscle pains, the helpless coughs of my patients with remedies that might kill them as soon as make them better, I had brought myself to the very edge of exhaustion. My hands refused to cease their shaking, and my eyes no longer focussed easily on my surroundings. It was then that Holmes put his foot down.

"Do you know, old chap," he said mildly, "Reordan's anaesthetic seemed to have no ill affects on the dog." He was sitting across from me as we enjoyed a late supper. He was clean-shaven for once and wearing trousers and shirtsleeves, so he'd probably had a client that day. The case could not have been a difficult one, however, as he seemed content rather than filled with manic energy.

"You aren't seriously comparing Gladstone's physiology to that of a human," I said, setting my much-needed tea down without taking a sip. Holmes's eyes glittered with amusement.

"Hardly," he declared, his voice airy enough that I myself might have doubted he had ever tormented the poor creature with his concoctions. "For one thing, dogs do not get the flu."

"Lucky buggers," I muttered, rubbing my aching temples with trembling fingers. "I thank the heavens every day that I myself never catch anything."

"Perhaps you are half-dog, then." Holmes wasn't quite smiling, but I had seen the corners of his mouth twitch. "You certainly pester me enough with your constant nagging about regular walks."

Instead of rising to the bait, I rested my head against the back of my chair, eyeing the tea as if it might tell me whether it was drugged or not. If I was to be of any use to my patients, I would need some fortification. Just then, Gladstone very noisily commenced to demonstrate the other great advantage of being a dog.

"Wish that I were," I said with a certain amount of awe and, I will admit, envy. We watched silently for several moments as Gladstone licked his private parts with considerable enthusiasm. I don't remember which of us broke first, but suddenly we were roaring with laughter in a way we hadn't been since Jabez Wilson and his Redheaded League. My eyes were burning, my lungs aching as I wheezed for breath, and Holmes was faring little better, although by now his gaze was fixed on me rather than the dog, who had trotted away to conduct his business in a quieter environs.

"Go to sleep, John," Holmes said gently once I was slumped back in my chair, even more exhausted now the laughter had left me.

"My patients -"

"- will be better off with a physician who can tell phenacetin from phenic acid." He eyed me with severe disapproval. No one can impersonate severe disapproval quite like Sherlock Holmes. He has the face for it. "We both know what happened the last time you pronounced someone dead."

I glared at him, but said nothing. No matter how many years went by, he never let me forget Lord Blackwood and his seemingly mysterious return from the grave. It was only fair, I supposed, for I had yet to stop needling him over his obsession with Irene Adler, long after we had turned into more than simply old room-mates who were once again sharing digs in Baker Street.

In truth, the demands of my patients were only partly responsible for my lack of sleep. For all that my body was tired, my mind would not let me rest, filled with the events of the day, second-guessing my decisions, trying to find a cure for the sickness which I knew would take many more lives before it had run its course. And always, appearing inescapably before my inner vision during the darkest hours of the night, the faces of those I had been unable to save.

Yet I could hardly admit these things to Holmes, for whom sympathy is a rarely-indulged notion.

"Good-night, then," I said, rising from my chair. I would have liked to enjoy his company a little longer; for all he drives me to vexation at times, his very existence is a comfort to me. To my surprise, he studied me for a moment and then rose as well.

"Perhaps I should offer my assistance," he said, pursing his lips and looking up at the ceiling with studied indifference. "Do you still wish to give in to your canine notions?"

I'm afraid it took me a moment to grasp his meaning, but when I did, I could only smile tiredly at him. "I'm afraid I couldn't reciprocate tonight, old boy. I would fall asleep the moment I reached completion."

"My dear Watson, you should know by now that I have the most impeccable timing," he said with a sniff, and I pulled him in to kiss his pouting lips.

He chose his own bedroom that night, which was a rare occurrence and remains so still, for seldom is the room tidy enough to make it from the door to the bed without risk of serious injury by slipping on sheets of paper or stepping onto unsheathed ornamental daggers. Mrs. Hudson must have made him clean some time during the last few days, however, since the floor was nearly empty and the bed free of crumbs and stains.

"Lie down," he murmured after he had divested me of my clothing, his hands brushing over my tired limbs rather more freely than was strictly necessary. I must admit that I leaned into his touch quite shamelessly, my whole body suddenly aching for him in a way that made my blood burn and my skin flush. He quickly stripped off his shirt and trousers and I could not entirely hold back my appreciative sigh at the sight of his bare, lean form. He does not generally approve of underthings, but even so it thrills me every time to see skin where it would be proper to expect an additional layer of clothing. Not that anyone would ever call Sherlock Holmes proper, for he would laugh in the face of everyone who did so.

I lay back on the bed, my head on his pillow, inhaling the scent of him as he crawled on top of the mattress. He smiled briefly and leaned down to kiss me before he nudged against my arm.

"On your side, there's a good fellow."

I rolled onto my side so I was facing him and expected him to settle down so he could kiss me again, for kissing is among his favourite things. He did no such thing, however, instead turning so his feet were hanging off the bed, his member right in front of my face, and his mouth in the perfect position to suck lightly on my hipbone.

Sherlock Holmes, let it be said, is a genius.

I took him into my mouth without hesitation, for by that time I was starving to taste him. The hand that wasn't trapped between us I used to caress his beautiful behind, both to pleasure him and to give myself something to hold on to as he first licked at my rapidly growing manhood and then closed his lips around it. I might have moaned had I not been so preoccupied with my own breathing, trying to pull in enough air through my nose to keep myself from passing out as I teased him with my tongue. As it was, I merely gasped, my head swimming with pure sensation. His hot skin beneath my palm, his hardness between my lips, his heady scent in my nose, his own ministrations of myself, all mixing together to drive me next to mad with lust.

It couldn't last long, and it didn't. I was too tired for anything fancy, and he in turn for once did not attempt to prolong my pleasure to the point of desperation. When I felt myself nearing the precipice, I pushed my hand between his legs and teased his balls with my fingers before pressing down firmly on the soft skin behind them, determined to make him climax before me. He grunted, jerked, and seconds later spurted into my mouth. I swallowed everything he gave me, and it must have been my tiredness that made me contemplate, however briefly, that at least this liquid would be sure to be undrugged, unlike my tea. I might have chuckled at the thought, but he did something so wicked with his tongue that I gasped, letting his softening member slip from my mouth as I shuddered and gave myself over to him.

The little death always leaves me pleasantly exhausted, and in my sorry state I was near-insensate by the time he had milked me dry. His hands stroked aimlessly over my damp skin, a gesture of affection that had me press a gentle kiss to the curve of his hipbone. He sighed, bestowed a brief kiss of his own on the scar tissue that mars my leg, and then briskly pulled the blankets out from underneath me. I was half-asleep already and didn't offer any resistance as he moved me this way and that to ensure his work the greatest-possible efficiency. Finally, I was tucked in to his satisfaction and he gave my blanket-covered arm a satisfied pat as he took a step back.

"Aren't you coming?" I murmured, my eyes slipping shut without my telling them to.

"In a moment," he replied.

I wanted to ask where he was going. Maybe I even opened my mouth to do so, but I confess I have no recollection of the time between that moment and the next, when I felt the bed dip beside me and his strong arm closing around my waist.

"Sleep," he whispered, and surrounded by warmth and darkness and him, I did.


End file.
